


Asportation

by Mazarin221b



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is the one to watch out for, Humor, Kidnapping, M/M, POV Outsider, Wrong Omens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 09:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20190265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: It was supposed to be a fairly straightforward operation: wait until closing time, slip in just before the doors are locked, snatch the bookseller, call the boyfriend.What Sully did not expect was said bookseller sitting quietly at Kitty’s kitchen table, the single light overhead shining beatifically into his bright blonde hair, teaching Kitty to knit.





	Asportation

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [This tweet from @WrongOmens on Twitter.](https://twitter.com/wrongomens/status/1159807334459293696) I laughed so hard I couldn't help but fill this out, because, you know, Aziraphale would always take the opportunity to do good. 
> 
> Not betad or anything - I've had a hell of a hard week, and just writing something for fun was really cathartic and relaxing. If you see a typo just DM me on twitter. <3

It was supposed to be a fairly straightforward operation: wait until closing time, slip in just before the doors are locked, snatch the bookseller, call the boyfriend.

What Sully did not expect was said bookseller sitting quietly at Kitty’s kitchen table, the single light overhead shining beatifically into his bright blonde hair, teaching Kitty to knit.

“It’s really quite simple,” he says, looping another length of yarn around his fingers and holding it up so Kitty can inspect it. “You just have to have a bit of tension here, then bring it back between, there you go! You’re a natural, dear.”

Kitty beams, then holds up a little row of pink, uneven stitches. “Lookit, Sully! Mr. Fell says I’m a _nat’rul_.”

Sully wipes his hand over his face. A simple, straightforward operation.

He really needs to take a piss.

“Look, Kits, Bob’s gonna be back in a minute with the pizzas, just make sure you give him enough cash, yeah?”

“Pizza?” Mr Fell says, delighted. “Oh I do love a good pizza. One time I was in Rome, well, oh, a long time ago, let’s say, and this delightful little shop just outside the Holy See - “

“Not another damn story,” Sully groans. “Could you shut it for five blessed minutes?”

Mr Fell raises an eyebrow, Kitty tilts her head and narrows her eyes, and Sully, inexplicably, feels ashamed.

He’s really gotta go piss.

……………………………………………………………………...

“Are you sure we got the right number?” Bob asks, then tilts back a beer. “I mean, we left a message and told him to call; you’d think after twenty four hours the guy would actually give a rat’s ass that we’ve got his boyfriend locked up somewhere. But we’ve heard fuck-all.”

Sully agrees. The bookseller’s posh boyfriend, the one whose flashy vintage car caught their attention in the first place, hasn’t even attempted to call them. What kind of an asshole doens’t even attempt to find out where their partner is? This is just too fucking wierd for Sully’s taste. “Look, we’ve got him, he’s not causing any trouble, maybe the boyfriend is scrounging for the cash. Give it another couple days.”

“We ain’t killing him,” Kitty pipes up from her place at the table. “He’s going to teach me how to purl next.”

Mr Fell pats her on the arm, beaming.

Bob rolls his eyes. “Point is, we can’t just let him go, he’ll go off to the coppers and then look where we’ll be. Kitty, you sure you had the right number?”

“You questioning my methods, Bob?” Kitty snarls. “Have I ever been wrong?”

“I’m just saying, if we called the wrong number - “

“His fuckin’ voicemail said it was Anthony J. Crowley, knobhead.”

Sully can feel a headache brewing. As he considers what his options might be to help it - a hammer to the forehead is sounding more and more appealing at every moment - the burner mobile he’d bought just last week trills to life, the sound shatteringly loud in the generally silent flat. They all four stare at it - Bob with wide eyes, Kitty looks smug, and Mr Fell looks happy and pleased.

Sully picks it up and thumbs the little circle. “Yeah,” he says.

“I understand you have something of mine,” a low voice purrs, smooth as silk, and Sully instantly starts sweating.

“We do. And it’ll be a hundred grand to retrieve it.”

There’s a pause. “Let me talk to him.”

Sully considers. Proof that his boyfriend is actually there and alive will possibly get him the money faster, so he hits speaker and puts the phone on the table. “Go ahead, Mr Fell. Its your man.”

He’s not sure what he expected - breathless pleading, begging for money, tears, or what - but “Hello, darling!” in a cheery, almost pleased voice was not it.

“‘Lo, Angel. How’s tricks?”

Mr Fell scoots his chair around the table so he can get a bit closer to the speaker. “Oh, things are going splendidly here. Another couple of days, I should think.”

“All right. See you then,” Mr. Crowley says, and it sounds like a goodbye.

“Hang on just a minute!” Sully yells, watching his hundred grand start to crumble to dust. “You mean to tell me you’re just going to leave him here?”

There’s a long pause, in which Sully worries the phone has cut off, but then Mr. Crowley speaks. “Thing is, you think you’ve got him, but he’s actually got you.”

Sully swallows, his throat suddenly tight. “What-” he tries to croak, but Mr. Crowley interrupts him by laughing, lowly, into the phone.

“Well, good luck!” he says cheerfully, and hangs up.

…………………………………………………………………………………..

It’s day three, and Sully is sure sometime in the interim, he’s died and gone to Hell.

But Hell has perfectly fluffy omelettes, filled to bursting with bacon, tomato, spinach and Gruyere, produced by one childhood friend, Bob, who never in his entire life has ever cooked, not once, driving his mother to distraction with demands on her fridge and her time until she finally booted him out of her house at age 23, and told him to grow the hell up.

Now, at nearly 30, Bob, his best friend since forever, is standing at the cooktop in Kitty’s little kitchen, and carefully sliding a spatula under the just-done edge of the eggs in the pan, and then pausing.

“Yes, that’s right,” Mr Fell says, and his voice is gentle and calm, sort of like that guy Sully once saw on TV, that painter dude with the hair. “See how it’s firm on the edge there, but still a touch jiggly in the middle? That’s the moment.”

Bob re-positions the spatula and folds the omelette, then slides it onto a plate with a flourish. Mr. Fell claps his hands and smiles, pleased as punch at his new student’s progress. “Excellently done, Bob! That one can go to Sully, I believe.” Mr. Fell’s eyes meet his, and Sully suddenly feels exceptionally small, and slightly nervous.

“Here you go, Sully,” Bob says. “Mr Fell says if I keep on like this I might be able to be a chef for real, in a restaurant. I guess culinary school is a thing? I didn’t know it was for all sorts, thought you had to be posh or whatever to get in but I guess not?”

Sully nods, still sour about the fact they’re holding onto a fucking kidnap victim and they have nothing to show for it. He’s running out of patience, though Mr. Fell apparently isn’t. He puts a forkful of eggs in his mouth and pulls back in surprise. “You made this?” He says, and shovels in another bite. This is the best food he’s had in an age and he’s not wasting it. Kitty is about halfway through hers, and she nods at him as if to say _“Yeah, see what I’m saying about this guy?”_

“Well, I mean, I did some but Mr. Fell helped me,” Bob says sheepishly, then turns back to the old avocado green stove.

“Nonsense, dear boy,” Mr. Fell adds, then wipes his hands on a tea towel before sitting down at the table next to Bob. “You had the ideas, I just gave you some pointers. Now, remember, classes start in three weeks, so get your application in. I’ll let you borrow the fees for now.” Bob nods and turns back to stir the pitcher full of whisked eggs and cream.

“You’re going to what?” Sully mumbles. This is so fucked up but he’s starting to realize that fucked up is par for this course. “Who in the hell lends money to the guy who dropped a bag over your head and dragged you here? Aren’t you worried we’ll kill you if your man doesn’t hand over the money? He’s only got until today, like I told him.” Mr. Fell doesn’t say anything, so Sully looks up from his plate and has the great misfortune of meeting the man’s eyes. They’re mesmerizing: blue and deep and endless, and Sully can’t seem to break the connection between them.

“You know,” Mr Fell starts quietly, and at the sound of his voice, the entire room seems to fall away, leaving nothing but his eyes, his voice, and the beating of Sully’s heart. “You were the hardest to figure out. What did you want? Money, of course, you all did. But you want something more. You wanted a chance, I believe. A leg up out of your troubles, a chance to start over. This was your last big job, and now you’re done. You have a talent for organizing people, Sully. For leading them. You’re as criminal a man as I’ve ever come across, but your core ethics are strong. You and Kitty and Bob could, if you keep yourselves together, open a lovely little tea shop and have great success.”

Sully blinks, and the room rushes back around him, the sizzle of the pan, the click of Kitty’s knitting needles, the smell of bacon. He shakes himself and looks more carefully at Mr. Fell. He’s sitting quietly, complacently, neatly and carefully slicing off bits of omelette with his knife and taking dainty bites.

He stares harder, and there’s something there, a faint glow, perhaps, that seems to lighten Kitty’s dingy little flat with its single kitchen lightbulb.

Then the front door bangs open, and there, in the doorway, is the boyfriend, dark glasses on and hair tousled just so, and Sully recoils. He never signed up for a guy wearing leather pants and a snakehead buckle, with face tattoos. He probably should have checked him over a bit more closely beforehand. Kitty drops her knitting needles. Bob seems unfazed, and simply glances up.

“Hang on, I got to get this out of the pan first,” he says, and Sully drops his head into his hands. Seriously, what the _fuck_.

“Crowley!” Mr Fell says, and bustles around the table so he can fall into Mr. Crowley’s open arms. “Oh, I’ve missed you, darling.”

Mr Crowley grins, and it looks strange on his face. “You could have come home anytime, Angel, so no sympathy from me.” Mr. Fell pouts with a playful twist of his lips, and Mr. Crowley sighs. “You know I’m just teasing. Give us a kiss, then.” Mr. Fell giggles then wraps a hand around Mr. Crowley’s neck and pulls him down into a kiss that lasts long enough, and has enough obvious tongue, that Kitty puts her hand over her mouth and giggles and Sully has to look at the ceiling or the wall or anywhere possibly else.

Bob just ignores the whole thing, focusing on slicing a pint of strawberries for God knows what.

They do finally separate, and Sully is relieved. Mr. Fell looks a bit pink around the collar.

“You ready to go?” Mr. Crowley asks, tracing a finger down Mr. Fell’s cheek. Sully really feels like he should leave the room.

“Yes, darling, just let me say goodbye first.” Mr. Fell crosses the room and stands before Kitty, then lifts her hand. She looks sad but hopeful and pleased as Mr. Fell speaks quietly to her about her knitting and the possibilities for her future. Sully has a sudden stab of desire to go to her and put a hand on her shoulder. They’ve known each other since secondary, and frankly, she’s always been able to take care of herself. Sully never thought for a moment that maybe she would want someone to be there for her. But maybe she would.

Mr. Fell gives Kitty a hug, then turns to Bob and shakes his hand. “Now, mind what I said about school, Bob. Come to the bookshop with your signed application and we’ll talk about how to pay for it. Alright?”

Bob beams. “You got it. I’m going over this afternoon, in fact. Thank you so much, Mr Fell. I’ll never forget this.”

“Good man,” Mr. Fell says, and then turns that bright blue gaze on Sully. He tries not to recoil, but the aftereffect of the strange moment they’d had in the kitchen earlier echoes in his head. “Sully. You’ll do well to remember what I said,” he says gravely. “And consider what it is that you want for your future. You are sitting on a lot of potential. Lead them.” Sully swallows, and Mr. Fell puts his hand on Sully’s shoulder and gives him one long, serious look. Sully nods. What else can he do?

“This place gives me hives,” Crowley says, looking around with a frown. “Reminds me too much of the 70s. Let’s go, angel.”

“You’re ridiculous. But I’m ready.” Mr. Fell takes Mr. Crowley’s offered arm and they step outside into the hall. But before Sully can close the door, Mr. Crowley pops his head back around the corner of the doorframe.

“You got lucky,” Mr. Crowley says, and the three of them freeze. Mr Crowley slides his sunglasses down his nose, and his eyes are an unearthly yellow, the pupils slit like snake eyes. “If you touch him again, you’re going to deal with me.”

Sully can feel menace radiating from every pore of Crowley’s body; a coiled, dark violence that feels like it could strike out at any moment, and he nods, slowly, goosebumps breaking out all over his body.

The door slowly closes on its own, and all is silent. The three of them shake themselves awake, and all look at each other. Sully runs a hand over his hair, and takes a deep breath. There’s a black satchel on the living room table that wasn’t there before.

“Hey guys,” he starts. “You ever thought maybe about opening a tea shop?”


End file.
